


Bright Red

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky tries to be domestic and mostly succeeds, Bucky's POV, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Surprise Gift, The description pretty much says it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"No, there is no way anyone wants to read a fic where Steve and Bucky cook a lobster in 1940 and nothing else happens, that's it, the lobster scrabbles around in the sink, they have to borrow a stock pot from their neighbor, it's summer, Bucky is wearing a sleeveless undershirt with his suspenders slipped off his shoulders and Steve wants to draw him in the style of a Mucha print."</i><br/> </p><p>Except me.  So I wrote it for you.  Happy Christmas.</p><p>One thing, though - I changed your ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slowestshark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowestshark/gifts).



> How to say this - it's amazing how I don't know your name, or where you live, or even if you're a boy or a girl, but because you've taken the time to write such thoughtful, eloquent, lovely comments on my story you've managed to make a difference in my life. Because those comments encourage me to feel good about my writing, and have faith in it, and encourage me to continue - and continuing to write in turn keeps me sane. So thank you thank you thank you to the mysterious slowestshark! I hope you don't mind that I appropriated your plotbunny for this, but I didn't know what else I could do for you, other than to write something for you. You are amazing.
> 
> And to anyone else who's ever taken the time to comment on any of my stories, if you happen to read this - thank you as well. I would write you all gifts. And if you ever have a plotbunny that you plan not to write yourself, you can always do what slowestshark did, and make the mistake of sharing it with me.
> 
> Merry Christmas! Happy Christmas! Happy every holiday ever!

He forced himself to walk briskly up the steps, curbing his desire to outright sprint. That wasn’t the smartest idea, not when the old boards creaked beneath his weight, and just last week someone had busted through a particularly weak step. The landlord still hadn’t fixed it, the cheap old bastard.

But he didn’t really think about all that, his hand curling tighter around the paper bag in his hand. It was a rare day that he was excited, really excited, about anything, and that was why he wanted to bound up the stairs, race to the sixth landing and all but bust in the door to their apartment. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Steve’s face.

But he made himself go slow, and that helped keep up appearances when he paused at their door, pulling out his key and sliding it into the lock like it was any old day of the week, when he’d trek up the stairs exhausted and sore and smelling like the coal-black smoke of the docks.

Steve wasn’t alarmed as he walked in, shutting the door carefully behind him. If anything, he outright ignored his entrance for a few long seconds, finishing a line on the sketch he was working on at their sad excuse for a dining room table. But when he did look up, eyes bright and focused the way they always were when he was drawing, he smiled, and that made Bucky squeeze the rolled top of the paper bag a little harder.

“Hey, Buck,” he said, standing. He could see Steve’s eyes already drifting to the bag wonderingly, and even though he’d planned to make a bigger thing of it, he couldn’t stand to wait.

“Gotcha a present, Stevie,” he announced, lifting his arm and holding the bag proudly out in front of him.

He watched as Steve’s nose wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. This was the way it usually went with presents. The first thing on his mind was always how much it had cost, followed shortly by the question of whether or not they could afford it, the answer usually being a solid no. He had to sell Steve on the idea of a gift, let him settle into the idea, charmed by his reassurances. 

He wasn’t surprised when Steve took the bag from his hand tentatively, shifting his attention back to searching his eyes for an explanation.

“What is it?” he asked cautiously. 

He sighed, rolling his eyes. In moments like this, he almost wished Steve were more like a girl. They didn’t ask questions about presents. Just gasped real loud and ripped off the paper and gushed thank you over and over like you’d just saved their goddamn life.

But then, he did like a challenge.

“Open it up and find out,” he said. He reached out, nudging the bag playfully with a finger.

Steve was having none of it. He refused to look down at the bag, eyes still locked on Bucky’s face.

“Why’d you get me something?” he demanded. His blue eyes flashed, alive like the hottest part of a fire. “It ain’t Christmas.”

Bucky fought the urge to smile. Like he did a hundred times a day, he felt a wave of affection surge inside him. He knew he wouldn’t feel the same, watching a pretty girl undo a ribbon with careful, delicate hands before letting it fall silently to the floor. 

“It’s your birthday,” he insisted, carefully keeping his voice light, playful. He loved this game, and he was good at it. The moment he got too serious was the moment Steve would gain the upper hand.

“My birthday was three weeks ago,” Steve shot back, affronted. He was still stubbornly holding the bag in front of him. “And you got me something already.”

The sour way he said it was an implication that he shouldn’t have, but Bucky didn’t care. He could’ve watched Steve draw in the bright sunlight under the window all day, wearing down the perfect sharpness of those colored pencils. Hell, he could’ve watched him his whole damn life.

“That was nothing,” Bucky said, finally letting the grin he’d been holding back spread across his face. 

“Take it back,” Steve said. He held the bag out a little further in front of him, gesturing for Bucky to take it, but he only shoved his hands deep inside his pockets.

“Open it,” he insisted, nodding toward it. “You don’t even know what it is. I coulda brought you a dead pigeon, for all you know.”

Steve scoffed at that, but lowered the bag hesitantly back toward his chest.

“Surprised you didn’t think of that earlier,” he said, unrolling the top slowly. “’Bout the only way we could afford meat in our diet.”

Bucky didn’t respond, too intent on watching Steve finally begin to open the bag. He had nearly unrolled it, seconds away from peering inside, when the stiff brown paper jerked to the side.

Steve yelped in surprise, dropping the bag to the floor. It twitched again, pushing itself an inch to the left.

“The hell!” the smaller man hissed, jumping back from it. “It’s something – alive?!”

Bucky clapped a hand over his mouth, nearly gagging himself in his fight not to double over laughing. Steve stared at the bag a few more seconds before finally looking up, staring daggers into him.

“What is it?” he asked heatedly, pointing down to the bag. It shuddered again, rustling faintly against the linoleum. “I swear to God, Buck, if it’s a kitten –“

His grin faltered a little at that. Last spring, Steve had come home with a kitten, tiny and ratty and soaking wet from the rain. It was supposed to be just for the night, just until the rain stopped, but of course Steve was no more likely to turn an animal to the streets than kill it, so it stayed. They bought a bottle of milk and let it lap it up out of a too big plate, since they didn’t have tea cups with saucers.

It had been a wise little creature, and took to Steve much more quickly than Bucky, nuzzling his thigh as he sketched, curling into a perfect pale orange ball on his chest as he slept. All it took was one look at the two of them for Bucky to decide that he didn’t care what was necessary, a third job, a fourth, they were going to keep that kitten. 

But Steve had insisted that they couldn’t keep a cat, not when they could barely make rent. And he was right, but still Bucky fought him, a long series of battles that he was destined to lose, because when Steve really made up his mind about something, that was the end of it.

He’d managed to pass it off to a guy he knew from the docks who needed something cute to give to his girl for her birthday, and Steve had pretended to be relieved. But he was quiet for the next few days, and Bucky swore to himself, one day –

“It ain’t a kitten,” he said, reaching down and tugging the bag toward him. He opened the top carefully, peering cautiously inside before positioning his hand over the opening and plunging it inside.

He lifted it back out, fingers tight around the body, the pincers flopping helplessly in the air. He was careful to keep his eyes straight forward, not wanting to miss the moment when Steve’s mouth fell open.

He wasn’t disappointed. Steve stared at him, eyes wide, shifting from his face to the lobster, and then back again to his face.

“You finally lost it, Buck,” he said faintly, shaking his head slowly, then a little more adamantly. “You went out and bought us a lobster? Why on Earth would you –“

“Hold it, slow down,” he said, cringing. The lobster was flailing in his grip, the stiff little legs waggling between his fingers, and he walked quickly to the sink, dumping it inside before he spun back to Steve. “I didn’t buy it. I unloaded a truckload of fish for Mr. Kotke and he was short on cash to pay me so, he let me pick out whatever I wanted.”

Steve was still gaping at him, closing his mouth only to let it fall open again.

“And you picked a lobster?” he asked, his voice awestruck. Bucky took that as a good sign, utter surprise being a whole lot better than anger.

“It’s the most expensive sorta fish, aint it?” he said, shaking the moisture off his hand. “Well, it’s not a fish, but you know what I mean. Always wanted to take you someplace real fancy, with white tablecloths and flowers on the table, and get us lobster.”

Steve’s mouth fell open a little farther, his eyes slowly widening as he blinked at him. Then he closed it again, and Bucky watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

His shoulders stiffened as he realized what he’d said, and for a moment, fear gripped him, twisting his gut. He wondered if he’d gone too far, let too much slip. But then Steve finally spoke.

“But what are you gonna do with it?” he asked. He moved a little closer, looking down into the sink with raised eyebrows. The lobster thrashed a little, its legs clicking against the porcelain.

“What do you mean, do with it?” Bucky asked, staring down too at the creature. It was no kitten, but he felt almost guilty, knowing it had to die. But it would’ve died anyway, destined for someone else’s dinner table, and now it was going to fill Steve’s belly. The end justified the means. “I’m gonna cook it up for ya.”

Steve turned to him, incredulous. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then a grin broke over his face and he laughed, then laughed harder, until he was nearly bent over the sink.

Bucky frowned, his shoulders stiffening up again.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, the warm feeling he’d gotten from revealing the lobster slipping away.

“What, you’re a five star chef now, Buck?” Steve said, finally, his voice still shaking. “You’re gonna cook me a lobster? You can barely make spaghetti!”

“That ain’t true!” he threw back defensively. “Nothin’ wrong with my spaghetti. My Ma taught me – you throw a noodle at the wall, and if it sticks it’s done.” 

“Are you gonna throw the lobster at the wall, too?” Steve asked, then burst into a fresh round of laughter. Bucky scowled at him, but beneath his irritation, he was beginning to feel that warmth, that pride again. It had been a long time since he’d seen Steve laugh that hard.

“Can’t be that hard,” he muttered. “You put it in some water, boil it, it turns red. Put some butter on it, there you go, it’s done.”

“Sure,” Steve said, clutching absently at his chest as he worked to catch his breath. “But what are you gonna cook it in?”

“What do you mean, cook it in? I’m gonna –“ Bucky began, his voice falling away as he realized that Steve was right. Of course they had a pot, but it was small, not much bigger than a tea kettle. “Oh.”

“Maybe we don’t have to eat it,” Steve said, chuckling a little. Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, sensing another jab at his failure to really think this lobster thing through. “We can keep it as a pet. Fill up the bathtub –“

“Oh shut up, punk,” he said, licking his lips as he thought. “You just wait, this lobster is gonna be the most delicious thing you’ve ever put in that big mouth of – oh, I know what I’ll do. I’ll ask Mrs. O’Donnelly if I can borrow one. She has five kids, she’s gotta have a really big pot.”

“I better ask her,” Steve said, leaning leisurely against their kitchen counter, grinning. “She likes me. She gave me a nickel once when I helped her carry her groceries up the stairs.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at him, shaking his head.

“Please,” he said, raising his chin. “We passed each other one time when I was headin’ for a date and she said I looked ‘very handsome’.”

He grinned, watching Steve for his reaction. He was surprised when he saw something fall briefly in the other man’s face, but he quickly recovered himself, an easy smile returning before Bucky could ask himself why it had faltered in the first place.

“Get goin’, then,” he said, shooing Bucky toward the door with his hands. “I’m startin’ to get hungry.”

“Watch the lobster,” Bucky said teasingly, trying to make his voice serious. “Don’t let it escape.”

“And miss my fancy dinner?” Steve questioned, smiling wickedly. “Never.”

Bucky grinned back, wasting no time before turning around and heading out the door, nearly forgetting to be careful on the questionable stairs. When he was back – nearly twenty minutes later, because when he’d told Mrs. O’Donnelly about his plan to cook a lobster, she’d had nearly the same reaction as Steve, only more questions - the stockpot heavy in his arms, he opened the door to Steve still hovering in the kitchen, eyes on the sink.

“I think it knows,” he said absently. “It keeps trying to crawl out. I kinda feel sorry for it.”

“You kinda feel sorry for everything,” Bucky said, positioning the stockpot on top of their ancient stove. It was too big to tilt underneath the faucet of the sink, so he bent down, rummaging in the cabinet for their little pot so he could use it as an oversize ladle. “But if you’re really that sad over poor Mr. Lobster, I guess I could bring him down to the docks with me, set him free –“

“In that water?” Steve scoffed. “He’d be dead by morning.”

“See?” Bucky said, standing back up and sticking the pot under the faucet, turning on the water. Beneath it, the lobster jerked at the sudden sound, twisting in the sink. “We’re being merciful.”

Steve frowned at that, but shrugged.

“It’s gonna take you forever to fill up that pot,” he commented, watching as Bucky dumped the first potful into the stockpot before sticking it again under the faucet.

“It’s gonna feel like forever with you watching me like that,” Bucky said, using his free hand to wave him away. “Go relax. Do somethin’. It don’t take two idiots to cook a lobster.”

Steve’s frown deepened, and he hesitated, shifting his weight between his feet.

“You sure?” he asked. “You’re doin’ all the work. I can at least keep ya company –“

“No, no,” Bucky said, dumping in another potful. “I told you, I’m cookin’ it. I don’t want you doin’ nothin’.”

Steve’s forehead creased in the way it always did when he was about to be stubborn about something, but then he released his breath in a huff.

“Fine,” he said, his voice mock-sour. “I’ll leave the chef to his work.”

Then he drifted closer, leaning down toward the sink.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the lobster, his voice a loud stage whisper. He gave Bucky a quick smile before he turned, wandering off toward the sofa.

It did take awhile for him to slowly fill the stockpot, flames licking the bottom. 

It took another stretch of time for the water to actually boil, and by the time it did, sweat was dotting his forehead, making the random pieces that had fallen loose from his slicked-back hair stick to his skin. It was already hot in their apartment, the summer air outside only just shifting toward the welcome cool of evening. 

“Stevie, open a window, will ya?” he called, still hovering anxiously over the pot. 

“Sure,” the other man called back. He heard a quiet rustle as Steve stood, padding over to the window, then the low creak as he opened it. Then, a few moments later, the gentle scratch of his pencil as he started drawing again.

He smiled to himself, feeling at peace. Steve was right – he was no good at cooking, despite his protests over his spaghetti – but he liked it, liked making something simple that he knew at least would taste good, liked bringing a plate full to Steve on the sofa, liked the satisfaction of watching him slowly eat it as they talked.

He could feel a slight breeze from the window, but it wasn’t enough, not hovering close to the steaming stockpot. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting his suspenders drop as he shrugged out of it. He slung it lazily over the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, walking back to the sink.

“All right, lobster,” he said quietly, reaching down and wrapping his hand around the dark animal. It struggled in his grasp, and he lifted it in the air, careful to maintain a firm grip. “Make sure you taste good, or I’ll be seeing you in hell. Only the best for Steve.”

Then he dropped it in the stockpot, wiping his hands absently on his undershirt.

Figuring it would take awhile for the lobster to cook through, he busied himself with side dishes. They didn’t have much – scraggily green beans that he cut in half and threw into their small pot, a few potatoes that he tossed in the oven. He was hovering over the stockpot, peering down inside it anxiously as he waited, when Steve wandered back into the kitchen.

“How’s it going?” he asked, unable to fully mask the edge of concern in his voice. Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly at him as he turned, giving him a sidelong glare before quickly returning his attention to the boiling water.

“Well, I think it’s dead,” he said lowly, watching from the corner of his eye as Steve cracked a smile.

“That’s a start,” he chuckled. “How do you know when it’s ready, though?”

“When it turns red,” Bucky answered solidly. The lobster wasn’t there yet – from what he could see beneath the surging bubbles of the boiling water, it was still a dingy brown, though not as dark as it had been going into the pot.

“That seems a little vague,” Steve said skeptically. Bucky finally turned around fully to face him.

“Didn’t I kick you outta here?” he said, advancing toward him. His suspenders rustled at his sides.

“It sounds like you’re gonna need my artist’s eye,” Steve said, taking a step forward of his own. “How else are you gonna know the right red?”

“And have you take all the credit when it turns out perfect?” Bucky sniffed, taking the other man’s thin shoulders in his hands and pushing them back – but gently. “Hardly. Go. Go draw something. Draw the lobster. It was the prettiest lobster you ever saw, wasn’t it?”

“You’re impossible,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes. But he turned around and marched himself back to the sofa, and by the time Bucky was back to monitoring the beans and analyzing the color of the lobster, he heard the soft, familiar scratch of pencil on paper again.

He checked and checked what felt like a hundred times, until the creature in the pot brightened ruby red under the bubbles. Bucky killed the flame, letting the boil subside so he could get a better look.

Bright, shiny, slick ruby red.

Perfect, he judged silently. He wondered if this was how Steve felt, in the brief moment when he stared down at a finished drawing before nodding to himself and flipping the page.

He dumped the stockpot over the sink, arms straining until all the water finally drained, and the lobster slowly slid out. He set it back on the stove, then took a moment to gaze down at the cooked animal, admiring the steaming red of its shell. It stood out brilliantly against the white porcelain of the sink, and suddenly he thought of Steve in winter, his skin pale beneath the plush red scarf he’d gotten him last Christmas.

He smiled a little to himself, reaching up to grab their plates. Now Steve would have to eat his words. Literally.

A few minutes later, everything was divvied up. He resisted the urge to give Steve the whole tail – that wouldn’t go well, he knew, and it was pointless to bicker over an inevitable outcome. Instead, he cut the animal fairly straight down the middle, half a tail and a claw for each. 

He dribbled a little extra butter on Steve’s serving, though, a holdover from his birthday. He wouldn’t notice that.

Then he carried the two full plates to the sofa, lowering one down toward Steve, who beamed up at him and set his sketchbook aside to take it eagerly.

“It is very red,” Steve said approvingly, and Bucky couldn’t help but preen a little, his chin rising subconsciously.

They did have a small dining table, off kilter as it was, with a pad of paper stuffed under one of the legs to make it level. And that was probably more proper, for a lobster dinner – an actual table, with actual chairs.

But most nights he just brought their food to the hole-ridden but comfy sofa where Steve sketched. That way, he didn’t have to move, and they could eat side by side, with nothing to stretch out the distance between them.

Bucky hesitated before diving into his own food, even though his stomach, by now, was hollowed out with hunger. Instead, he watched, trying not to be too obvious about it, as Steve’s fork slid into the white flesh of the tail, shimmering wet gold with melted butter.

Then he raised it to his mouth, licking his lips before letting the piece disappear inside.

He chewed for a moment, paused, chewed again. Then he groaned, a low rumble in his small chest, as he stabbed his fork into the tail again.

“Oh god,” he mumbled, even as he took another bite. “It’s like a fish that lived in cream its whole life.”

Bucky almost didn’t want to eat himself, didn’t think he could swallow a thing, not with a lump now lodged fully in his throat. But Steve, even distracted by the lobster, would’ve noticed and quickly called him out on it, so he picked up his claw in his fingers, gingerly trying to rip the pinchers apart. 

His heart picked up pace a little in his excitement. He’d never actually had lobster before.

But the bright red shell was thick, and stubborn, and in a moment he was grimacing down at the claw as his fingernails failed to make any indentation in the slick surface.

Of course, Steve noticed, blond eyebrows raising.

“Having trouble?” he asked, around a mouthful of potato. Bucky scowled.

“No,” he grunted. Then, finally giving up, he picked up his knife and turned it over in his hand, slamming the butt of it down against the claw over, and over, and over, until there was finally a satisfying crack.

He set his knife down, picking into the pieces. When he glanced up, Steve was staring at him wide-eyed. His lips were pursed in a thin line, holding something back, and soon as their eyes connected, he burst out laughing.

“What?” Bucky demanded gruffly. He threw a piece of creamy flesh into his mouth, almost absently, and went still as it melted over his tongue. It was good. Really good.

Good enough that for a few seconds, he could almost ignore Steve cracking up across from him.

“M’sorry,” the other man finally mumbled, still catching his breath. “I’m just tryin’ to imagine you, in that fancy restaurant.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes automatically, frowning.

“Well, we ain’t in a fancy restaurant, are we?” he said, pressing another warm piece of lobster against his tongue. They weren’t – and that was better, he thought, even though he didn’t share the thought with Steve. In a fancy restaurant, he couldn’t lean to the side, let his bare shoulder brush against him. Couldn’t tuck his plate between his chest and the top of his knees, feet up off the floor and nestled into the sofa cushion. Couldn’t laugh this loud.

“Nope,” Steve said. And Bucky couldn’t be sure, but he sounded almost as content about that as Bucky was.

They ate together in a comfortable, ravenous silence after that, punctuated by the odd hum of appreciation or smack of fingers being sucked out of his mouths. It felt like only a few minutes before he turned back to Steve, and his plate was nearly empty, marred only by scattered pieces of shell.

“Mm,” he groaned, setting his plate in front of him on the coffee table, next to his sketchbook. Bucky watched as he stretched his arms back dramatically over his head, sighing as he settled back into the sofa. “I’m so full.”

Bucky thought he had never heard more perfect words in his life.

He set his own plate aside, mimicking him, falling back into the comfortable warmth of the cushion. The cool of the evening was finally settling in, drifting through the window in a soft breeze and creating a welcome contrast in temperature.

He was stuffed, too, and he sighed as he let his hand drift absently over his belly. Then he reached out, lifting the sketchbook off the coffee table.

“I wanna see the lobster you drew,” he said absently, turning through sketches to the last used page.

“I didn’t draw –“ Steve began, but then he let the sketchbook fall open, and his eyes widened despite the sudden sleepiness of having eaten so much.

It was a drawing of him, standing in front of the stockpot. He’d taken off his shirt, his suspenders dangling from his waist, his undershirt damp with sweat, clinging to the muscles of his lower back. His weight was shifted more onto one leg, his hand lifted, poised, hovering indecisively as he looked down into the pot. Stylized waves of steam rolled up toward his face like clear ribbons, echoing the strands of hair falling messily over his forehead.

He was dumbstruck for a moment, his finger absently tracing the dark outline of his body.

“This is different,” he finally said, voice low. “You usually draw things so they look like a photograph, but this –“

“Yeah,” Steve said. His voice was rushed, as if he couldn’t wait to cut Bucky off, snatch back the drawing. “I’m experimenting. It’s supposed to be like a Mucha print. Kinda like stained glass?”

Bucky didn’t say anything for a moment, his finger still dragging across the paper over his own image. He let his breath out slowly as he stared, taking in every detail again and again.

“I swear, Stevie,” he said, when he didn’t think he could look anymore, but still couldn’t make himself break eye contact with the paper. “You draw me like I’m a god or somethin’.”

He hesitated another few seconds, then carefully set the sketchbook down. When he turned back to Steve, the other man was looking away, staring off to the side and down at the floor. Bucky’s mouth fell open a little.

“Hey, you’re blushing,” he said, forgetting himself as he leaned forward. Steve’s shoulders twitched a little, but he didn’t look at him. “You’re bright red. Like the lobster.”

He waited, expecting Steve to deny it, to shoot something back at him. That was the way it was between them – they’d call each other out on things, mock-fight, then laugh about it, washing away any real embarrassment.

But now, Steve was quiet, staring down at his hands. He rubbed his thumbs absently together, breathing heavily, before he finally went still and spoke.

“Did you mean what you said, before?” he asked. He had almost mumbled the question under his breath, and Bucky strained to hear it, leaning closer to him.

“About what?” Bucky asked. His voice was quiet too, and serious, sensing a shift between them.

“About,” Steve began, stuttering. He took in a full breath, let it out. “About taking me to a fancy restaurant. You said you always wanted to, like you’d thought about it more than – but you meant a girl, right? Maybe a girl you were real serious about? You wouldn’t wanna waste that on me.”

Bucky sat back a little, stunned. The way Steve said it, it was like he wasn’t even asking a question. He was making a statement, laying it out there and making it painfully easy for Bucky to just agree, to just nod and say, yeah, that was what I meant. Laugh about his earlier slip. Make light of it, of everything, sweep it under the rug.

His eyes moved from Steve, cheeks still burning in his pale face, to the drawing, and then back to him. His mouth fell open in understanding, even as a part of him fought with the knowledge. Screamed that he had to be wrong.

“Nah,” he said, softly. “I meant you. Kind of stupid, huh? Like you’d even care if a place had white tablecloths and waiters from France.”

He waited, holding in his breath, as his eyes roamed over Steve, tensely anticipating his reaction. He watched as the other man’s shoulders slumped, relaxing, even as he clutched his hands harder together in his lap.

“Yeah,” he said, turning slowly to face him. “That is stupid. Like you wouldn’t take a shot of the cheapest whiskey in the city over a glass of the best wine from Italy, any day of the week.”

“Guess I’m just a dumb sap,” Bucky offered, voice low. They stared at each other, but hesitantly, neither one daring to look the other in the eye.

“Guess so,” Steve said back, shifting a little closer to him on the sofa.

Now they’d run out of words, and still Bucky sat there, paralyzed. It didn’t seem possible, that he was really being handed everything he’d ever wanted, slipped to him like a kiss from God. Not after everything he’d done to try and live without it.

And if it were true, shouldn’t Steve – he was always the brave one, the one to make the first move. Sure, his punches could hit a little harder, but only after Steve had dared to start the fight. Now the same man was sitting quietly on their sofa, head ducked, waiting for him.

But maybe it did make sense, he thought, finally meeting his gaze as he turned to look tentatively up at him, blue eyes blinking slowly. Maybe he was the exception for Steve. The one risk he was too afraid to take. Because he was too important to him to –

He breathed out slowly. He didn’t know. But every part of him wanted to find out.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them in one fluid movement. He pressed his lips gently against Steve’s, still slick with melted butter.

At first, he was still, shoulders rigid. But then his lips parted, his body relaxing forward into him, small hands clutching at the thin fabric of his undershirt.

He kissed him, tugging him into his lap, and kissed him, falling back into the sofa, and kissed him, humming in contentment and frustration – he wasn’t sure which, when Steve buried a hand in his hair, tugging it up so that their lips could meet again.

He didn’t think it would stop, until Steve finally tugged playfully at his fallen suspenders, and they broke away from each other, both panting softly. Steve was staring down at him, pupils dark, grinning.

“You’re bright red, too,” he said, tracing a finger along his jawline.

He groaned, too lost for words, and lifted his hands, pulling him back down.


End file.
